


Hooded Man

by lady_of_clunn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robin Hood, Angst, F/M, Infidelity, less than wonderful Weasleys, mention of an entirely imaginary religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 07:44:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_of_clunn/pseuds/lady_of_clunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voldemort is dead and the Wizarding world is a safe and just place for all magical folk to live. Right.</p><p>Written for the first round of dramione_remix on LJ. Remix couple: Robin Hood/Lady Marion</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank missingkeys for all the hard work, the hand-holding, cheerleading and the excellent, excellent beta, and for the twig! All remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with Harry Potter or Robin Hood; I do not earn money by writing this story.

Delicate petals of pink and light yellow glittered in the first rays of the morning sun. Dew was soaking through Hermione’s shoes and socks. She was not dressed for a day out in the forest; the small colony of dusk flowers near the edge of the Forbidden Forest had vanished and she had had to search the clearings much further in. 

The sun was rising and she had to hurry; the flowers would lose much of their magical potency. Kneeling down on the damp grass, she began harvesting the most delicate of the tiny flowers. After a few seconds she grew frustrated by not having full access to both her hands and quickly stabbed her wand through the bun at the nape of her head.

She was reaching for a particularly brightly coloured blossom when her wand was yanked away from her and a hand dug painfully into her hair.

Flailing helplessly, panic bubbled inside her. Constant vigilance! Would it have been so bad to have to come back here tomorrow? Did she have to be so impatient? Now she wondered whether there even would be a tomorrow. A wand was touched to her temple and she stilled.

A wizard? What kind of wizard would be in the Forbidden Forest at this time of day? Or at any time of day?

“The Forbidden Forest is a dangerous place, little witch,” the man behind her whispered close to her.

Her eyes darted around trying to assess the situation without turning her head.

Slowly, at an almost lazy pace, figures cloaked in tones of brown and green emerged from in between the thick growth of trees. 

One dropped from a majestic tree, his descent slowed by magic, making his cloak fan out like wings.

She counted four in addition to the one holding her on her knees. Too many to distract and run. 

The hooded men drew closer, forming a semi-circle in front of her. The wizard, who had been observing her from the tree, stepped up to her. Cupping her chin with his hand, he held her still, eyes somewhere in the shadows of his hood.

“Well hunted, Blaise.”

He threw his hood back and revealed white blond hair that shone blindingly in the sun.

Draco Malfoy smiled a cruel smile.

 

***

 

The man behind her pulled on her hair and she could not help but follow, rising to her feet unsteadily.

The man, Blaise – Zabini? – released her hair from his grip and caught both of her wrists in his hands, bringing them high over her head.

Malfoy stepped closer and slid his hands along the length of her arms to her arm pits and from there to underneath her breasts. Her heartbeat sped up and she was sure he could feel it through her robes, but he didn’t miss a beat, sliding his palms over her belly and her hips. He came even closer and now their bodies were nearly touching. For a short, mad instant she thought he was embracing her but then realised that he was searching for concealed weapons at her back. Malfoy must have sensed her discomfort for he smirked and stayed near, his shoulder nearly touching her nose. Squatting down, he let his hands roam the outside of her legs and lingered at her ankles, hands on her favourite green and black striped socks. Suddenly, Hermione was profoundly glad that he was still holding her gaze, if rather mockingly at that. Her mother had given her the socks one Halloween and Hermione cherished them dearly, although she had been teased by Ron about catering to Muggle prejudice.

One corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitched to form a short half smirk and then his hand ran along the inside of her legs.

Hermione squeaked and tried to stop his path, pressing her knees together. Malfoy jerked his head in the direction of the wizard holding her arms above her head and her feet were kicked apart. Malfoy quickly felt for weapons, stopping at the apex of her thighs.

Then he was gone, his back already retreating toward the edge of the clearing. Hermione stood stock still, eyes wide, until a nudge from her captor told her that it was time to follow.

 

***

 

Her shoes were not made for walking in the underbrush.

“There’s still time to turn around.”

Her robes tangled and ripped in the wild bramble bushes.

“I won’t tell anybody, I swear!”

She stumbled and cried out as her arm was painfully twisted and pulled back. Zabini kept his hold on her arm strong and steady but made no move to help her up.

“You could _Obliviate_ me or I could take an unbreakable vow!” Now she sounded whiny even to her own ears.

“Shall I make her shut her gob, Draco?” Theodore Nott had been following her with hatred in his eyes from the very beginning. “I could show her how much we appreciate Muggle methods and cut her tongue out.”

A silver knife blinked in his hand, reflecting the few rays of sun that could penetrate the thick roof of branches and leaves.

“ _Silencio_ ,” Malfoy barely stopped to aim his wand at her. “More walking, less talking, Granger. We still have a ways to go.”

It was already around mid morning when they reached their destination. Hermione could not see the position of the sun in the sky but they had walked for several hours in the rising temperature. She felt thirsty and sticky in the robes she had worn to fend off the early morning chill.

Zabini kept pulling her along with him, which became a more and more complicated task. The farther they walked into the forest, the more she felt compelled to walk into another direction and avert her eyes from the path. Soon, the compulsion became so great that she could hardly set one foot in front of the other. Being pulled forward in this specific direction was akin to torture and her silenced mouth begged the wizards around her to just let her go left or right or let her _stop_ going for only a little while.

When Hermione thought she would fall to her knees in a helpless heap to be dragged along through dirt and leaves any second now, the tingling of strong wards washed over her and the torment stopped.

For a moment, the light in the clearing blinded her. The quiet deafened her ears. A panicked heartbeat long she was afraid that they had now robbed her of all senses but then she heard a bird singing and her eyes adjusted to the midday sunlight.

It was an odd assortment. Underneath a giant old oak tree, a small, strangely cheerful congregation of wizarding tents were stood in the clearing. Some were akin to small Muggle camping tents, not unlike the one she had spent so many months in, hunting Horcruxes with Harry and Ron. Others were likened after medieval tents one might have found at the site of jousting, broad red and blue striped fabric falling in ample folds, a small streamer fluttering on top of the highest point. There was a very feminine pink tent with little turrets that rather looked like a kitschy wedding cake and a majestic dark green tent with elaborate embroidery.

“Don’t even bother to memorise the details of our location, Granger. We never stay long enough in one place to get attached or make it home.”

_Yes, she could see the parallels._

“There’s water in that covered cauldron over there. Do us all a favour and don’t wash yourself in it, as tempting as getting rid of your stench might be. It’s our cooking water and if you want any, you better be careful with it.”

The other wizards had taken off their cloaks upon arrival at the camp site. Hermione recognised Adrian Pucey and Gregory Goyle; the latter only confirming his identity, as his burly stature had been quite telling. He was now leaning on his wizard staff, looking at her with resentment.

“The wards won’t let you pass without one of us escorting you. You don’t have a wand and Theo here will be watching you very closely, so don’t try anything if you know what’s good for you. Now behave, I have an owl to send to the Head of the Aurors. Potter still lives in Nottingham, right?”

Hermione nodded mutely.

They still hadn’t taken the silencing spell off her.

***

 

Dejectedly, Hermione sat on a small rock or rather a bigger than average stone. Her knees came up to her chest but perching like this was still better than sitting on the ground. She had tried, out of pure defiance but had only garnered amused looks and a muddy backside.

She could not stop rubbing her tingling fingertips over the rough fabric of her cloak that she had draped over her knees. Feeling very stealthy, she had edged toward the boundary beyond the half circle of tents standing around a large fire site. Thinking that nobody paid her any mind she had tried to wandlessly break through the wards. With a loud bang the wards had thrown her onto her already muddy behind. Now, although it had been hours since her attempt at flight, she could not decide whether her fingertips were more numb, or feeling as if burnt, or tingling as if she was touching a badly grounded Muggle electronic device.

“You.”

 _I?_ Hermione looked up into the unfriendly face of Gregory Goyle. He was different from what she remembered. No longer simply big, but burly with hard, angular edges. The type to stand guard in front of Muggle clubs or come knocking at your door when invoices had been left unpaid for too long.

Goyle jerked his head toward the campfire. “We have tea early here. Come or go hungry.” He turned around and walked off not bothering to see whether she followed or not.

Her joints and muscles ached in protests when she struggled to her feet. The members of the... what were they? A band of... somebodies? They had discarded their cloaks and hoods and were now sitting around the fire on a colourful and diverse assortment of chairs. Transfigured from branches or fallen tree trunks, everybody seemed to cater to their own comfort and taste. An Art Deco leather armchair stood next to a chintzy chaise longue alongside chesterfield sofas and something that looked like a rather gothic recliner.

Draco Malfoy sat on a broad, carved armchair, upholstered with tanned leather. Seeing her approach, he patted an untransfigured length of tree trunk to his right.

“Hurry up, Granger; if you are good, I’ll change this into something more comfortable.”

Adrian Pucey and Blaise Zabini were busy handing out steaming bowls of stew. Reaching her, Pucey stood awkwardly, obviously at a loss of what to do.

“Oh for the love of Herne! Give her something to eat, Adrian.” Malfoy pointed his wand at the log, which instantly changed into a pouf or large footstool matching his armchair. “And you sit down, Granger!”

She sat on the leather pouf, well aware that it made her appear to sit at his feet. Hermione decided that she didn’t care. It was better than her rock. Stone. Glorified pebble.

“You are welcome, Granger. It wouldn’t hurt you to say thank you. Are you mute or what?”

With a sudden surge of anger she looked up into his face. _“As a matter of fact, yes, I am!”_ she mouthed silently.

“Oh, bloody hell! Forgot about that.” He might have blushed very, very faintly. Or the sun might have given his fair English skin a healthy glow. “ _Finite Incantatem_.”

“Thank you.”

Malfoy nodded in acknowledgement and turned his attention to his stew. Several of the men had already started to eat. She counted seven of them besides Malfoy. It was a bit of a shock to see that she recognised several of them from school. Goyle, who had leant his wizard staff against the high back of his wooden armchair, Blaise Zabini, Adrian Pucey, Theodore Nott, looking young and vulnerable and hateful at the same time. Three more she had never seen before. They were quietly talking among themselves. A bit older than the rest, they must have been already out of Hogwarts when she had started her first year. 

The conversation around the fire was subdued and careful. Hermione suspected that her presence had something to do with that. She concentrated on her stew, eating slowly. It was her first meal today, as she had planned to have breakfast with Headmistress McGonagall after harvesting the dusk flowers. Sitting at the edge of the clearing, hunger had soon started to gnaw on her insides. 

She knew it well. Hunger was an old enemy from her days of the Horcrux hunt, or as it was now called in the history books, _The Quest_. Food was one of the few things that magic could not provide and there was a real possibility that there would not always be stew available in the next days.

“Well done, Doncaster.”

One of the men she had not seen before, the one with dirty-blond, long hair, lifted his gaze from his meal and grinned.

“Without Theo’s talent for hunting, it would have been berries and roots again.”

Nott had finished his portion and now reclined on the opulent chaise longue.

“Since I have already been outlawed for poaching, I think it only fair to take advantage of the circumstances.”

_Poaching? Poaching of what?_

The others chuckled and Zabini slapped Nott on the back.

“I am delighted to find you all in such merriment. My goodness! Is this Miss Granger I am seeing? I heard you are pursuing a career in potions, dear?”

Horace Slughorn stood beside an elaborate Victorian sofa. His flowing, dark green velvet robes had winding golden vines embroidered at the edges and was girt with a garland of hop, mistletoe and rowan. Hair turned white, he had started to grow a full beard to accompany his still impressive moustache. He was an antique die-cut of Father Christmas come to life.

“Professor! What a surprise! It’s actually healing with an emphasis on potions research.” She stood, holding the stew bowl in her hands. “You have... you have joined priesthood?”

“Ah, my girl, I did try my luck at Kirklees, a safe haven for my final years. Alas, the brotherhood had strict rules and were quite contrary to my greatest vice, crystallised pineapple. I am afraid I had to either leave the pineapple or Kirklees.” Slughorn opened his arms wide. “And here I am.” The velvet of his robes, made for a much portlier man, did not stretch over his chest and belly but lay in ample folds.

“Kirklees?” Hermione sounded breathless to her own ears.

“Horace, it won’t do to get chummy with our pledge. We cash in the ransom, _Obliviate_ her and send her back.” The warning was clear in Malfoy’s voice.

“Pledge! Oh, dear. But fear not, these boys are a good sort, deep down.” Slughorn sat and inhaled the aroma of his stew. “Aah! A good day it is!”

Hermione remembered how miserable they had been on _The Quest_ and how their spirits were lifted, how hope had blossomed from a simple dish of spaghetti Bolognese. Here, too, the men around her had relaxed and conversations started around the fire. She made it a point to eat as slowly as possible, feeling the silent presence of Draco Malfoy to her left.

The shadows grew longer and she was suddenly very grateful for the big fire. Although it was summer, the tall trees shielded them from the setting sun and the little clearing was already bathed in twilight.

To ward off a sudden chill, Hermione set her bowl on the ground beside her and struggled into her robes, now glad that she had them.

“What is _that_?”

Malfoy’s venomous voice made her flinch and turn to him in surprise. Seeing where his gaze was directed, Hermione self-consciously tried to hide her stripy socks.

“It’s a joke. A gift from my mother.”

“A joke.” His face shuttered. “Do you also have little gingerbread houses as decoration in your Muggle house? Do you paint your face green on Halloween and walk the streets with one of those brooms that don’t even fly in hand?”

Her blush told him the truth. Yes, yes and yes. It was the only way her mother knew to try and be close to her daughter’s life.

He looked at her in disgust. “Humorous, is it? Making fun of us? You know nothing of our culture! This is exactly why we didn’t want...” Malfoy closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Whatever. Get ready for bed, Granger.”


	2. Cutthroat

In her mind, she could not help but _meep_ even though she firmly told herself that Malfoy would never touch her. In that way. None of them would, would they? Would they??

He stood, pulling her to her feet by her arm, making her stumble after him. Again.

“Do you need a few minutes behind a bush?”

She struggled and kicked at him. None of them had hurt a hair on her head. So far. “I know that every single one of your tents has bathrooms! Are you trying to humiliate me at every turn?”

He stopped abruptly. “I forgot that you have experience with living on the run.”

“Only I wasn’t a bloody cutthroat!”

“I have never harmed anyone!” He calmed a bit. “Not permanently.”

Hermione snorted.

“Come on. You’ll stay with me.”

“With you? Why?” With _him_? _With_ him?

“Would you rather stay with Nott? I am sure he would be delighted to Avada you in the back while fleeing.”

“As far as I’m concerned, one is as bad as the other. Just because Nott looks at me like he wants to slit my throat in my sleep does not mean that you won’t do it!” Secretly, she did hope that Malfoy would. 

Malfoy stopped walking and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t give me any ideas, Granger. Now be a good girl and get into the tent. Maybe I’ll even let you have the second bed. I am expecting Potter to answer my owl by tomorrow at the latest. Let’s try and make the two or three days you will be our guest as tolerable as possible, yes?”

He didn’t even wait for a reply as to what she was thinking about his hospitality. Malfoy had let go of her arm and stalked towards a rather unspectacular tent by comparison. It was one of the few that would not have looked out of place in a Muggle camping ground and reminded her painfully of the tent she had inhabited during their hunt for Horcruxes.

When she saw him disappear behind the flap, she made haste to follow. Spending the night outside would be cold and uncomfortable now that the outlaws started to change their sofas and armchairs back into wooden logs. She would simply have to count on Malfoy not risking the ransom by harming her.

The inside of Malfoy’s tent was bathed in warm candlelight. It was much smaller than the _Quest_ tent, obviously an affordable version for a young couple. There was a small seating area with a comfortable-looking two-seater sofa leading to a miniscule table for two and a kitchen that reminded her of the tiny pantry of the sailing boat she had chartered with her parents one summer long ago.

Hermione could see Malfoy through a half-closed curtain, partitioning a sleeping space from the main area. He had his back towards her, showing a broad expanse of pale skin.

Realising that she was ogling Malfoy’s bare back, she cleared her throat to make her presence known. He turned around, his shirt still in his hands.

“Ah. Decided to risk getting your throat slit?”

Hermione ignored him and peered around the curtain into the sleeping area. A French bed nearly filled the small space, leaving hardly any room for the slim wardrobe and dresser.

Hermione bit her lip.

“You said something about a second bed?”

He stared at her for a little while and sighed. 

“Well, it’s only for two or three nights.”

Malfoy waved his wand at the bed and it separated into narrow twin beds. The dresser had to hop out of the way and stood, clicking its drawers and managing to look as annoyed as a dresser can.

“Oh shush, you,” he told the piece of furniture and slapped its surface when the top drawer snapped at his hand. Malfoy took a tunic-style shirt from it and held it up; the neatly-folded garment unfurled without as much as a wrinkle. He assessed Hermione looking over the top of the tunic, nodded and threw it on the bed furthest from the curtain doorway.

“I don’t have many clothes but you can wear that at night and I’ll _Scourgify_ your clothes so they can air out before tomorrow morning.”

Hermione scurried along the narrow path between canvas walls and beds and picked up the soft, white tunic. 

“Draco?”

Malfoy whipped around, one of his boots in one hand, standing slightly lopsided on one booted foot.

“Is this really necessary? Why don’t you just let me go? It can only get worse for you. Ron and Harry are going to turn over every single stone in the forest until they find you.”

His face betrayed no emotion. “We need the money. Sorry, Granger.”

“Why do you need the money? To expand your wardrobe?” As soon as she had said it, she regretted the teasing tone. Malfoy looked at her with undisguised loathing.

“Yes, Granger. I need a few more pairs of dragon hide boots. Not to mention hair potions.” He turned away from her in an angry motion. “Go to bed. I’d rather not hear or see you until tomorrow morning.” He walked out stiffly and unevenly, ignoring his lack of complete footwear, drawing the curtain shut behind him.

After a moment of hesitation, she shrugged out of her robes and started taking off her blouse and skirt. Even though Malfoy didn’t seem to be coming back into the little alcove, she hurried to slip the tunic over her head. Malfoy was much taller than her and even for him, the tunic must have fallen to just above the knee. For her, it was a mid-calf nightgown.

He hadn’t offered her any toiletries and a half-hearted search of the tiny wet room unearthed a single toothbrush. Used. The dentist-daughter cringed and wailed inside of her but there was nothing for it. Hermione rinsed her mouth and climbed into the bed, teeth unbrushed.

She had not felt herself slipping off into sleep, but startled awake to a much cooler and darker room. The candles extinguished, there was only a faint glow coming from the direction of the kitchen nook.

“Granger?” Malfoy was leaning over her. “I am off to work. Now be a good little pledge and don’t try anything funny. Theo and Slughorn are staying in the camp. I’d not show my face too much outside the tent, if I were you.”

“Work?” her brain felt addled and unfocused. She desperately needed a drink of water.

“Yes, Granger. Work. The things I do to take care of the ones dependant on me.”

Hermione only managed a confused grimace, squinting up at him before he made a half-scornful, half-amused noise and slipped out of the tent.

Groggy, Hermione stumbled into the wet room and greedily drank straight from the tap and then vigorously scrubbed her face with the coldest water the magical tent would provide. Her teeth felt fuzzy and she was sure that ‘morning breath’ didn’t even begin to cover what she smelled like.

She slowly chewed on a crust of bread with cheese from the cold cabinet in the small kitchen, wondering what she should do. She wasn’t afraid, she found. Not really. Yes, of course, it was uncomfortable to be here but she did not fear that any of the men here would do her permanent harm.

To test the waters, Hermione drew the flap of the tent to the side. 

Theodore Nott had divested himself of his cloak and tunic, splitting wooden logs with wide movements of his wand. His face was flushed pink and a fine sheen of sweat covered his skin. The frown that was always present on his face when he looked at her was absent.

The pile of fire wood grew quickly and Nott paused to lean back and cast _Aguamenti_ over his face and chest.

“Theo?”

The domed wards shimmered and a thin woman in threadbare robes stepped onto the camp site. Two small children trailed after her, holding tightly to her washed-out skirts.

Hermione was reminded of Remus Lupin and pictures she had seen of Severus Snape as a small boy and student. Rita Skeeter had latched on to the tragic hero’s story after his role in the war had come to light and had written a series of articles about the all too short life of the much-hated Potions Master.

“Euno! You are early!” With haste, he pulled his tunic over his head and hugged the weary-looking woman close. She leaned on him as if soaking up his strength. His hand rested on the little dark blonde head of the little girl, who had her thumb in her mouth and an arm slung around one of his legs. “Mica.” Hermione could hear the smile in his voice. “How is my little morsel?” The little one just held on even tighter than before. “And you, Militus? Are you helping your mother?” The little boy stood very straight and nodded seriously.

Nott gently placed his hands on the woman’s shoulders and pushed her back so he could look at her face.

“You should not take such risks. I love seeing you but I could not endure to see _Caput_ cast upon you and the children!”

 _Caput_? Hermione had no idea what he meant and she found this a bit disconcerting.

Nott led the little family toward the medieval jousting tent and vanished inside.

Hermione withdrew to the sofa in the sitting area of Malfoy’s tent. The woman and her children had looked so worn out, tired and – dare she think it? – hungry.

Who were they? Outlaws? Could children even be outlawed? She hoped not.

Thirsty, she tried to dispel her unsettling thoughts by searching the two kitchen cabinets for tea. She found a tin with loose leaves, about a third full. There was no milk and the sugar basin only had a very thin layer of crystals coating its bottom.

Only after spooning tea leaves into the tea pot did she realise that she had no wand, and the kitchenette did not come with any way to heat water without magic. Her mouth felt dry and sickly sticky. The loss of her wand started to hurt in a dull but insistent way.

Again drinking her fill directly from the kitchen tap, she felt a bit better but she mournfully stroked the empty sleeve of her robe where she kept her wand most of the time. The silent solitude of the little tent made her restless and she started wandering around, making her bed as if she were a guest on her best behaviour rather than a pawn to be exchanged for wergild.

Just as she was staring restlessly at the few cups and plates littering the little porcelain sink in the kitchen, a thunderstorm of apparition descended on the camp. 

Still with shock, Hermione stood facing the tent-door, afraid to open the flap only to see that Harry, Ron and their Aurors had come down on the outlaws with all their might.

“Slughorn!”

Malfoy’s voice was hoarse as if from constant screaming, like it was actually gone but he forced it to go on.

“He... he’s had too much mead, Draco.” Only Zabini had dared to speak the truth. In the silence that followed, Hermione could hear a strangled gurgling. A second later, the tent flap flew to the side and a bloodied Draco Malfoy came crashing through the tent. He seized her arm with a grip that hurt and snarled into her face.

“Have you sworn a Healer’s oath?”

Unable to process his question, Hermione stammered, her brain suddenly incompetent.

“I... Yes. I mean, no... Not yet. But I am expected to adhere to the principles...”

“Adhere to the principles.” His eyes and voice were so cold and for the first time, Hermione was truly frightened by Draco Malfoy. “Then see that you do, not-quite-yet-Healer. You are needed.”

He dragged her out of the tent to the campfire. The ground was sodden with dark fluids. The clearing stank of blood. The blond man-Dick? Doncaster? Dick Doncaster?- was kneeling over an uncontrollably shaking figure in a patch of dark mud, pressing a bunched-up cloth to the figure’s chest.

Malfoy pushed her toward them and placed a hand behind her neck, his grip painful and unrelenting.

“You have ten seconds to look, Granger. Then I’ll take you to Slughorn’s tent and you’ll have thirty seconds to take from his stores what is necessary.”

Hermione stared at the prone figure. Goyle. So much blood. The skin was sweaty and sallow, the lips hardly darker than the rest of the face. His breath was shallow and uneven.

Oh, Circe! She was not that kind of a Healer! Instead of interning at the A&E of St. Mungo’s, she had been part of the potions development department. There were first aid rules that they had all learned and there had been that one, singular day that she had spent setting bones and mending gashes, but this was not the type of injury attended to by a Healer with an emphasis on potions research.

Now, her mind felt as blank as if she had never in her life learned a thing about healing.

“Time’s up. Move!”

Malfoy herded her to the elaborate dark green tent and shoved her inside. The interior was a Victorian nightmare of the Celtic variety. Dozens of little tables and armchairs crowded the living space, every wooden surface sporting winding Celtic carvings. The kitchen tried to take over the lab, or vice versa, it was not easy to distinguish potions ingredients from tinned or pickled delicacies. 

From behind a gauzy, embroidered curtain, loud snores drifted through the tent. Hermione stumbled her way to the wide table that was covered in phials and minute bottles.

Finally, finally, the blankness in her mind lifted. Potions she knew about. Slughorn had kept to the standard colour coding of the phials. Green glass signalled healing potions. Picking up one green phial, one green bottle after the other, she found blood replenishing potions, pepper up, suturatio, organ-protecting potion and anti-infective potions containing silver.

Hermione held out part of her robe, gathering everything into it. When she turned to run to the entrance, Malfoy held her back. Confused, she looked into his face that was contorted in pain and fury.

“Be careful, Granger. If he dies, so do you, and I will not give a shit about the ransom.”

With that, he released her with a violent movement toward the tent flap and ran outside.

Hermione ran after him and shouldered past the other men standing in a circle around Goyle and Doncaster.

“Out of my way!” Doncaster looked up, tears and fear on his face. “Your name is Dick, right?” He nodded. “You will help me, Dick. I need you to lift the cloth for a little bit and press it back down when I say so.” Draco grasped Doncaster’s tunic by the shoulder and lifted him away. He knelt and pressed down on the makeshift compress. “I will do that. Tell me when.”

Hermione tipped a first phial of blood replenisher into Goyle’s mouth. “Now.”

Draco lifted the cloth from Goyle’s chest and bared the wound to Hermione’s eyes. Something had cut through several layers of clothes, at least one of which seemed to be leather, and then deeply into muscle, bone and underlying organs. The curse had missed his heart but the gash was deep and long and he was losing blood too fast.

“I need a wand.” She held out her hand palm up toward Malfoy. He hesitated for a moment but after a look into her determined eyes, he slipped her wand out of his sleeve and placed it in her hand.

“Try something and I will cripple you.”

She ignored him, banishing torn clothes and dirt, and set to chanting intricate knitting and suturing charms to seal layer after layer of tissue. It was work she was not used to, had never had to perform under stress or in a real life situation at all. Still, these charms had been drilled into her brain during the core courses of her studies, and came almost without thinking if not without a certain amount of effort.

“Wipe my forehead.”

“What?” Malfoy sounded startled.

“I am sweating and I need to keep going. Wipe my forehead or it will fall into the wound.”

Draco produced an only slightly soiled handkerchief and wiped her forehead. After a few minutes he repeated the action, watching her carefully for any signs of discomfort.

It took a long time. Minutes could feel like hours when every second is precious, when every moment could be the last, when every heart beat of hesitation could mean that a heart would cease beating.

Hermione’s hands were shaking as she tipped the last potions into Goyle’s mouth and helped him swallow by massaging his throat. His breath came a bit easier now and although he was still pale, his colour seemed to be returning to his cheeks.

Zabini conjured a stretcher and Nott helped him to levitate Goyle to his tent. Hermione followed them with her eyes until they had disappeared into the pink, turreted wedding cake tent. Black spots crowded her vision and she felt the ground under her knees tilt and lean. Before she could slide off the world and slipped into darkness, strong hands caught and steadied her.


	3. Reality

Hermione woke to murmuring voices at the tent’s entrance. She could not make out what was being said but it was loud enough for her to come out of her sleep. Her back protested when she tried to swing her legs over the edge of the bed to sit up and a sharp stab of pain shot through her neck.

“Ow.”

“You are awake.” Draco was standing framed by the curtain that hid the sleeping area from view.

“How’s Goyle?”

“Sleeping. No fever. I think he will make it.” He sat on his bed, elbows resting on his knees. “Thank you, Granger. What you did was extraordinary. I-I just wanted you to know that I wouldn’t have killed you, no matter what would have happened. I was just...” Draco pressed his lips into a fine line.

“You were afraid that I might take the opportunity to poison him.”

“Yes. I can see now that you wouldn’t do something like that.”

“Is it worth it? I heard that you steal money from the big businesses and the Ministry. What for? It’s not like you can spend it here. Why risk your lives?”

Draco looked at her for a very long time. She had to force herself not to squirm and fidget under his gaze.

“Tomorrow, I will show you why it’s always worth the risk.”

She looked at him with wide eyes. “Okay.”

He nodded. “Would you like some dinner? It’s not much today but it will be ready in twenty minutes or so.”

As if to answer the question, her stomach chose this moment to grumble loudly and Draco sniggered.

“Apparently, I’d love some dinner, yes, but before, I’d like to shower and brush my teeth if that’s all right.”

“Of course. I’ll transfigure a toothbrush for you.”

A little later, Hermione raised her face to the warm spray of water and sighed in contentment. How little did it take to make her grateful for the most basic amenities. She could not imagine what life must be like hiding out in the forest without magic.

She dried her hair as best as she could with the towel Draco had given to her and wrapped it around herself. It covered her from her chest to the middle of her thighs. Opening the door she froze, staring at an equally frozen Draco Malfoy. He whipped around, turning his back to her.

“Er. Your clothes need more than a simple _Scourgify_. I transfigured some of mine; they’re on the bed. We’ll eat at the fire site.”

He had sounded panicked and, with a bit of her own panic receding, she watched him flee to the circle of sofas around the fire.

The clothes turned out to be one of Draco’s green tunics, lengthened a bit to vaguely resemble old-fashioned witches’ robes. She braided her hair and slipped her bare feet into her shoes. 

The atmosphere around the fire was solemn. The men sat with their soup bowls on their laps, eating slowly, the light banter of yesterday’s dinner absent. Gregory Goyle lay bundled in warm blankets, supported by downy pillows on a wide sofa. His eyes closed, he rested, the relaxed posture of his body speaking of the enjoyment of company and the warmth of the fire.

Hermione walked to the perimeter of the circle and stood a bit undecided what to do next.

“Granger.” Goyle’s voice was very quiet. “Thank you.”

Hermione smiled. “Nothing to thank me for, but you are very welcome.” Goyle’s eyes closed again and somebody cleared his throat next to her.

Draco held out a bowl of soup and gestured to his armchair that today was altered to a comfortable, high-backed sofa. 

“Please have a seat, Granger.”

Hermione accepted the bowl and sat at the end of the sofa not presently occupied by Draco. The soup was thin but well seasoned. The traces of meat could have been rabbit or possibly, Hermione shuddered, squirrel.

After a few minutes, the men started to murmur amongst themselves and Hermione decided it was safe to speak to Draco.

“Has Gregory eaten?”

Draco nodded. “Yes. A herb infusion with honey and some of the rabbit broth before we thinned it down. Eating exhausted him but he requested to be allowed to rest here with us, not alone in his tent.”

Hermione turned her gaze on the confection-like structure. “How did he end up with this tent?”

Draco smiled. “It was his mother’s; he is ever so embarrassed about it, but we all had to take what was available. Mine belonged to Regulus Black; it somehow ended up in the cellar of the Manor.”

Hermione took another spoonful of broth. “You do know that Slughorn is hoarding food among his potions ingredients?”

“I’ve seen the odd crystallised fruit and some other foodstuffs, but I don’t check his stores for something like this.” 

Hermione nodded and leaned back into the sofa. The warm soup made her sleepy and the events of the day had exhausted her deeply. Adrian Pucey brought out a lyre and started playing a gentle melody. In the dusky shadows, Hermione was slowly lulled into a half-sleep.

“Why in the world would you want to marry Weasley?”

Draco’s soft question startled her awake. The others had already left the circle around the campfire. The night had draped blackness over the world outside the reach of the flames.

Hermione hesitated a beat too long.

“How do you know?”

He scoffed. “Even we are not completely cut off from information. I must say that this bit of news travelled particularly fast. After what I have seen here today...” He started again. “You couldn’t be more different. It wasn’t important to you who it was who needed your help. Weasley... Weasley is not compassionate. Or your intellectual equal. We both know that the only reason he became Bailiff to Potter was because he is Potter’s best friend.”

Silence stretched around them. The fire crackled and Draco moved to levitate another log onto it.

“I am promised to him.”

Draco grew very still and then slowly turned to her.

“Promised?”

She refused to look away.

He looked and found what he had sought. His eyes and voice were soft when he told her.

“You went to him and he didn’t bother to explain the implication to his _Muggle-born_ girlfriend?” She was not good at hiding the truth. “And you? Are you so desperate to fit in that you will marry that little social climber regardless whether you will suit in the long run?” He huffed. “Not even arranged marriages are so cruel.”

“I thought about joining Kirklees.” Even as the words left her mouth she realised that she had not denied any of it nor had she defended her fiancé. 

“Kirklees?” He scoffed.

“It’s a respected way of life.”

“It’s the lifestyle of a third daughter too expensive to be married or a young widow shut away by her in-laws.”

She did not know what to say.

Draco leant closer. So close, she could feel his breath on her face.

“Is that the new world you wanted to build?”

“It’s a good world!” she cried. “People live in peace. Nobody has to be afraid.”

Draco stared at her. “You really believe that.” He stood. “Gods, you’ve become thick. Or are you afraid to _think_ nowadays?” He walked away from her with long, angry strides. Whatever could he possibly mean?

 

***

 

The next morning, when Draco woke her to the greyish light of a beginning sunrise, she only vaguely remembered being led back to the tent in the darkness and changing into her borrowed night dress.

“Get up, Granger. I promised to show you something.”

They ate while walking, this time; it felt much easier in her borrowed sturdy shoes and green trousers and tunic. It was a bit like fading into the landscape, being part of the forest and not fighting against it to get to their destination.

“It’s safe to Apparate from here; we’re far enough from the camp.”

What about yesterday? Hermione thought. They had Apparated right into the camp.

Draco seemed to be able to read her thoughts because he turned to her and said: “The others will move camp today while we are out. That will remove us from any Apparition signature and will also make it impossible for you to lead anybody to us should you manage to run.” Here, he looked at her in a menacing way. “I would not recommend it, though.”

Hermione nodded and he took her arm before turning on the spot and whisking her through space.

They landed on a small cobbled square, surrounded by a handful of houses that had been quite stately once but were now showing signs of neglect. Missing roof tiles were not replaced but the gaps had been patched with makeshift covers of impervious-spelled canvas.

Draco and Theo moved her quickly to the nearest house. Theo knocked on the door with his knuckles. Small holes in the wood and a difference in colour in the shape of a substantial doorknocker spoke of times when the owners had taken pride in their home’s appearance. 

The door opened and a small girl of six or seven years stood in the frame. Her robes had the shiny patches of fabric extended with an overstretched sizing charm. She smiled a small smile.

“Draco.” Her tiny hand grasped his. “Mother is waiting in the kitchen.”

“How is your father, Pica?”

She shrugged, her blue eyes unbelievably wide. She led them through a long corridor toward the back of the house. The dark red damask wall paper had many light rectangular patches where pictures had once hung. Hermione noticed that there were gaps in the rhythm of small tables and side boards lining the walls. No decorative objects were standing on the remaining furniture. The house looked as if the owners were getting ready to move out. Or as if somebody had died.

They found the mother of the child in the kitchen. Dishes and cookware were set out on the worktops and both the clothes airer and the pot rack hanging from the ceiling were well-used. The pan rack in the corner was missing the biggest of the copper sauce pans.

A delicate woman sat at the scrubbed kitchen table. Her robes showed the same over-use of tailoring charms as the girl’s, only here, they had the tell-tale dense and stiff patches of fabric shrunk by repeated plisse spells.

Dark circles like bruises marred her pale skin underneath her eyes. Her eyes were dull and tired.

“Palilia.”

“Draco.” She tried a small smile.

“How is the family?” Hermione was shocked to see Draco Malfoy hug the small woman.

She gripped his shoulders and pushed gently to be able to look into his eyes. Her eyes suddenly shone with tears and she pressed her lips together to keep them from spilling over.

“They decreased Picus’ wages again.”

Draco closed his eyes. “Did they say why?”

“No. They did it just because they could. They know very well that he desperately needs the money to pay the reparation taxes and, goodness, possibly some food every now and then?” She angrily wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “Pica is starting Hogwarts next year. I have no idea how we even will afford used books and robes.”

“We’ll find a way. We always do.” Draco cast a sideways glance at Hermione who was standing in stunned silence. The woman followed his gaze and looked at Hermione without recognition. Meanwhile Draco busied himself by digging a small leather pouch out of a pocket inside his cloak. Laying it on the table, it made the faint clinking sound of coins being jiggled.

The woman stared at the pouch with sad eyes. “I hate that you have to bring this. I hate that we need charity and I hate that I am going to accept it.” She clenched her hands into fists and released them slowly and deliberately. “Thank you, Draco.”

“Will it be safe for you, if I leave the pouches for the others with you? Can you get word to them without attracting attention? I’d rather not go from house to house at the moment.”

The woman nodded resolutely. “We have a druid hole in the house that we can use to hide the pouches. I think I will scrape together some tea leaves and invite my cousins and friends for an afternoon of needlepoint.”

“You hate needlepoint,” Draco pointed out, his eyes soft.

“I think I am presently developing an urge to make it an acquired taste. Possibly every month.”

He smoothed her unstyled hair back from her forehead. “Picus is a very lucky man.”

She playfully slapped his shoulder. “Charmer!”

“How is your sister?”

“Destroyed.”

Depression settled over the room like a blanket of snow; it even seemed to muffle all sounds.

While the kitchen was utterly silent and still, the sound of somebody creeping down the stairs in the hallway were ever louder.

“Are you handing out our bailments?” The voice sounded both mocking and aggressive.

“Cassiopeia!”

“Don’t act all offended, Palilia. You know as well as I do that the money he gives us is the only thing that keeps us out of Azkaban! None of us could pay the reparation tax! None!”

The words might have been rational on their own but the tone of voice had a shrill edge to it. Bare feet came into view first. In need of a cut, the toenails showed flecks of dark red varnish, long grown out and rubbed off.

The robes seemed to be clean, albeit out of fashion which was only noticeable because they had once, not too long ago, been the very height of it.

All in all, the impression was one of a less deranged Bellatrix Lestrange. The hair a bit more coiffed but in a way that suggested that her heart was not in performing the otherwise practiced task.

Both hands clutching at the banister, the witch slowly made her way down the stairs, naked feet dragging on the steps covered in a blood-red runner.

“How long do you think you can do this, Draco?”

“However long it will be necessary or I will be able to,” Draco calmly replied.

“And how long do you think it will take until they throw you into Azkaban? Until they have thrown every last one of our wizards into that reeking pile of stones?” She flung a hand out toward the empty walls of the hallway. “We have already sold our ancestors, how long until we sell ourselves?”

“Cassie...” The woman Palilia sounded half-placating, half-pleading.

Hermione hoped that they would leave soon and flee the uncomfortable atmosphere of the too empty house. Stepping back to move out of the line of potential curses being thrown, she bumped into one of the few pieces of furniture. The little preparation table jostled and its legs screeched loudly on the black and white floor tiles.

All eyes turned to Hermione.

“Hermione Granger!”

At the shrieking pronunciation of her sister, Palilia gave a shocked gasp of recognition and clapped her hand over her mouth.

The angry woman scrambled down the last few steps and rushed to Hermione with outstretched arms as if to grab her. Startled, Hermione stumbled further backward, upsetting the little table even more.

Cassiopeia grasped thin air and overbalanced, sinking to her knees with a sob. The witch crawled to Hermione, not taking the time to rise to her feet. “Please.” Tears and dust mixed on her face to dirty smears. “Please, milady. You are kind, I heard. You are the best friend of Harry Potter and the fiancée of Bailiff Weasley; you can talk to them, you can convince them!”

The witch clawed and clutched at Hermione’s cloak, even burying her face in the folds, muffling her words. In horrified silence Hermione could only stand and watch the woman fall apart at her feet. She heard the word ‘please’ and ‘husband’ and ‘Azkaban’.

She didn’t know what to do. Overwhelmed by the situation, she sought Draco’s gaze and he spurred into action. Palilia bent down to grasp her sister’s shoulders, quietly murmuring words of reassurance. Hands were plied from her cloak and Draco steered her through the hall, away from the two now sobbing women on the kitchen floor.

There was a last, desperate ‘please’ before the door that had once proudly held a large knocker closed behind her and encased the misery within.

 

***

 

“What happened?”

Draco didn’t need to ask what she was referring to. 

“Cassiopeia’s husband openly criticised the reparation tax. Most of the pureblood estates have already been either frozen or seized for the rebuilding efforts. You saw my cousin’s home. They have sold everything they could possibly spare. The new rich like to surround themselves with history, even if that means displacing other people’s confused ancestors to their new shiny houses and forcing family furniture to open drawers and doors even though century-old wards tell them otherwise.”

He moved to the edge of the sofa and stared into the tent’s wood burning stove.

“What did he do?” Hermione asked, dreading the answer.

“He marched into the Department for Rebuilding, Restructuring and Re-education and told them what he was thinking about their taking half his salary after he was only receiving half of what his co-workers were earning in the first place. He was loud about it. He never made it home; they put him into Azkaban on remand the same day.”

“I am sure Arthur doesn’t know about this! And neither does Harry.” She sounded much more confident than she felt. 

Draco looked at her, not believing what she had just said. Then his expression turned sad.

“Oh, Granger.” He covered his face with his hands.

“I am sure I’d have known if something like this was a regular occurrence!” At his exasperated look she faltered. “Well, I might have known on a factual level that reparations had to be paid and that the level of income for families with suspected Dark association were lower but... surely the Ministry would not demand payments from people who don’t have enough to support their families?”

“It’s the Ministry, Granger. Power corrupts. The Light side is no exception and neither is Potter or Arthur Weasley or your lovely fiancée, whose sole purpose of living seems to be social advancement. 

“He is no social climber,” she stated without much conviction.

“Oh, is he not? Then I must have imagined his ire upon his family’s societal status. I am very good at finding a person’s weakness, Hermione. This was his. His entire family’s in fact. They would have never admitted it, well maybe the Ministry fellow, the one, who was Head Boy in our 2nd year – or was it 3rd? But correct me if I am wrong. The two oldest boys ran off as fast and far as they could. Egypt and Moldova?”

“Romania,” she interjected and he nodded in acknowledgement.

“We already talked about the ambitious Ministry one; and the twins, as much as they like to joke around, have done little more than developing their business since they started Hogwarts.” He looks at her speculatively. “I am nearly certain that Ginevra climbed into Potter’s bed and bled for him the second he came back to her.” She thought that his gaze might have softened at that. “Of course, _she_ was fully aware of the consequences.”

“Stop it. He did not force or trick me into anything.” Hermione felt queasy, afraid that her pre-wedding jitters might well turn into post-wedding jitters.

“Of course not,” He said dripping with sarcasm. “Tell me, did he ever go down on bended knee to even ask?”

Hermione looked away, absently toying with the ring on her left hand. She had felt mortified and railroaded when Molly had passed a small, purple velvet-covered box to Ron. He had simply slipped the Prewett engagement ring onto her hand and the breakfast table had broken out in cheers. She could not remember ever actually agreeing to anything. No question and no answer; was she engaged at all?

Draco tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

“You look very nice in green.”

She trembled. The day had been only the latest in a string of eventful and exhausting days.

Had he come closer? There was not that much space on the two-seater sofa anyhow...

“Am I frightening you?”

He must have come closer! She could feel his breath on her skin.

Draco skimmed his fingers along her neck, not quite touching, but every single hair on her arms and upper body was standing and her skin blazed.

“I haven’t even touched you,” he whispered, not quite into her hair. “Yet.”

The tremble was now a very noticeable shudder and she helplessly arched her back, pushing even more toward him.

“Is he such a dilettante that he knows not to touch you gently?” His fingertips found the hem of her skirt. “Tell me, Granger, does he make you shiver?” She didn’t know whether she felt his touch or just the electricity between them that made the hairs on her legs stand when he slid his hand upward. Gods, he was good at not touching her. “Does he know how sensitive you are?” She had to look away. “Does he take his time to learn you?” Oh gods, why didn’t she do something? Anything? “Your skin is so soft.” He skimmed along the edge of her knickers, trailing pleasure in his wake, sharper and more purposeful than a mere tickle. Slowly, as if waiting for her to object, he pushed the fabric aside. To her horror, she now felt that her sex was already blooming and open for him. In startled realisation, she struggled to think of something to stop what was enfolding. He dipped lightly inside and then moved up to her mons. A finger stroked the full length of her clitoris, once, twice. There was no denying that he had an effect on her. 

“I will draw back this little piece of skin.” He pressed his cheek against hers. “I will hold it taut and then I will rub.” Her teeth started to chatter and she had to close her eyes, so embarrassed was she. “Ever so lightly,” he whispered.

Her breath sped up and she tensed her thighs in anticipation. He was so close. Everywhere.

“May I?”

Hermione keened and opened her legs wider.

The pleasure was nearly too much to bear. Sharp and sweet and so very, very direct. Hermione buried her head in his shoulder and held on to his arms. He swirled his finger around and around in soft circles. It was as if he could hold her simply by that tiny nub of pure delight. She tried to scoot even closer to him, seeking more pressure. Draco hesitated for a moment before he gave her what she wanted. It overtook her and she cried out into his robes, climaxing faster than she had ever achieved by her own hand. He prolonged her pleasure until she shied away from his touch, still buried in his neck.

“You are no chaste priestess, Hermione.”

And with that he disentangled himself gently and left her in the warm nest of his sofa, her sex throbbing from the climax he had brought so easily on her.


	4. Caput

The next morning she found him in the kitchen, his back to her just as she had had her back to him, feigning sleep last night. Half-dreading, half-hoping for his return to the tent, she had laid still, breathing deeply and evenly, knowing that she didn’t fool him for one minute.

“Good morning.” Her voice was so small that she wasn’t sure whether he had heard her or not.

Wordlessly, he placed a steaming cup of tea in front of her, which her hands accepted gratefully.

“Potter has sent word.” He looked at his tea tin on the narrow kitchen shelf. “He has accepted my terms and will deliver the ransom tomorrow.” Letting out a breath that was half-sigh, he turned to leave. “All is well, Granger. You are going home.”

Watching him disappear between the tent flaps, she had the feeling that nothing, absolutely nothing was well at all.

 

***

 

She had waited until the embers in the wood burning stove had huddled down for the night, lulled into a soft glow by Draco’s deep, even breathing.

Hermione had had a lot of time during the day, while Draco did everything to ignore her. Tomorrow she would go back. To her Healer-in-training job divided between St. Mungo’s and the Ministry’s Potions Department. She liked the work she was doing. Liked the steady stream of knowledge and learning that flowed around her. She could see now that she had gone into hiding. Had opted for a career in the laboratory instead of with patients and had turned down all the offers of an active role within the Ministry.

She had settled.

Avoided.

Ron. 

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. He deserved better. She deserved better.

She didn’t want to leave this little world of circus tents. The forest had accepted her. Even Theo had stopped slipping his wand into his hand whenever she was near.

And Draco.

Gods. Draco.

She had stared into the darkness until light spots swam in her vision.

Without making a sound, she slipped out from under her duvet and slid her feet along the rugs, trying to avoid bumping into the unforgiving dresser.

She slowly lifted the duvet from his chest.

A hard hand closed around her wrist and made her shriek in fright. The embers were startled awake, and orange light blazed into life in the room behind her.

Draco stared at her and slipped his wand back under the pillow.

“Granger! What do you think you’re doing?”

She blushed and said nothing.

The hold on her hand loosened.

“You are leaving in the morning,” he said, his eyes soft.

“I know.”

“We’ll never see each other again.”

“I know.”

He kept his hand on hers when she slid it under his sleep tunic.

“We will regret this.”

“I know,” she whispered into his mouth.

She drank his kiss in and breathed his breath. His hands went into her hair; his fingers twining around her loose curls.

Her borrowed tunic slid up around her hips easily when she moved her leg over his hips to straddle him.

Sitting up, Hermione moved his hands to her breasts and gently rocked her hips. He caressed her through the thin cotton of her shirt and ran his hands back up to the wild mass of her curls.

A small twig with a tiny, freshly green leaf was caught in a strand near her temple. He moved to disentangle it, but as soon as he had touched the minuscule branch, her eyes widened and she sat up straighter, grinding her hips into his groin.

The orange light of the embers flared high, bathing the tent in warmth.

Winding its way through her hair, binding it in an intricate design, the twig expanded and grew. Small leaves grew as the wood lengthened and expanded, branching off more and more. First the lightest of spring green, the leaves unfolded and matured into the lush, rich colour of summer forest.

Half-afraid to disturb the magic working around and on her, Hermione held still as she felt her hair rearrange into a crown of leaves and curls around her head with long strands falling down her back.

Draco plucked at the drawstring at the neckline of her tunic. It slid off her shoulders and down her arms, pooling around her hips.

“No chaste priestess,” he rasped.

She rose up on her knees, reaching for the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He helped her pushing them down by lifting his hips; his erection springing free.

Draco reached for her bunched-up tunic and the fabric melted away to fall to the floor next to the bed.

Guiding her hands to her centre, he gently caressed the inside of her thighs.

“Show me.” He let his fingers trail along the part of her he wanted to see and made her shudder. His hands skimmed downward and rested on her knees.

Frozen with indecision, his request took her breath away. Feeling oddly shy and vulnerable, she slowly reached between her thighs and spread herself for him. 

Breathing deeply he drew a finger through the folds of her sex, making her buck and follow his hand. He steadied her with a hand on her hip and repeated his action.

She tried to follow the delicious pressure of his fingertips, twisting her hips, but he always grazed along her flesh without making contact with her sweetest spot.

“Don’t tease me,” she begged.

He stilled his hand and encircled his cock, positioning the shiny head. With slight pressure on her hip, he encouraged her to lower herself.

She sank down onto him.

For a moment she sat slumped and breathed heavily. 

Draco’s hands massaged and stroked her flanks. She threw her head back and pushed herself up on her knees.

Her legs trembled under the effort. Hermione leaned back against Draco’s knees and supported her weight with her hands on the duvet. With every slide inside her, he now brushed along the spongy spot of pleasure.

The embers flared to a deep red.

Draco tried to reach for her but she was too far. With a groan he grasped her thighs and bucked into her.

The pressure deep inside her coiled tight. 

She was so close.

Draco gripped her with bruising force and hefted himself up into a sitting position. She shrieked as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her to him in a firm embrace. Anchoring her with his hands on her shoulders, he pulled her down to him whenever he pushed up.

She could feel him part her flesh over and over, stretching her to her limits. Hermione let her head fall onto his sweat-slicked shoulder, breathing in his earthy scent, and let the tidal wave take her.

They fell back in a heap of tangled limbs, hearts pounding wildly. Draco idly played with the braids in her hair.

The warm light of the stove pulsed softly around them.

Hermione could feel him swell inside her once more, so soon.

She smiled into the crook of his neck.

“Again?”

“Again.”

Later, in the cocoon of night, he told her.

“I didn’t want to want you.” He smoothed the hair out of her face, trying to caress away the distraught expression on her face. “I didn’t want to miss you, because it would hurt too much to merely be allowed a taste of the sweetest nectar and then be denied.”

She laid her head on his shoulder, a leg thrown over his. She did not dispute it.

At the first signs of dawn, she finally fell asleep, an intricate crown of slender oak branches in her hair, one of the leaves tenderly caressing his chest.

 

***

 

The clothes she had worn on the day of her kidnapping were laid out on the bed when she woke. With very slow movements she started dressing with care. Much more so than a walk through the forest would warrant. A bit mournfully, she placed her green tunic dress on his bed, missing it already.

Later, she awkwardly stood in the circle of cloaked men. Gregory Goyle surprised her by giving her a hug that literally took her breath away. Nobody but her heard the whispered ‘thank you’ before he turned, picked up his Wizard staff, and disappeared into the forest. 

The others shook her hand, one by one. Theodore Nott demurred and visibly fought with himself; his fists clenching and unclenching, then holding out his hand and squeezing hers for maybe half a second before turning around and following Gregory Goyle into the dark forest.

This time, the walk through the trees felt short. Although they did not talk much, she longed to stay just a little bit longer under the protection of the trees. To feel just a little bit longer his hand around hers.

Several times she had to free her feet and arms from branches clinging to her as if holding her back.

Too soon, she found herself in the very same clearing where she had tried to harvest flowers for her experimental potion.

Draco did not let go of her hand as he waved his wand and uncovered a neat pile of carefully harvested dusk flowers. He wrapped a length of linen around the delicate plants and handed them to Hermione.

“There is a preservation charm on them, but only since yesterday. I hope that won’t affect their properties.”

“I don’t think so. Thank you, this means a lot to me.”

She wanted to say so much but her mind was full of having to say a goodbye that would be a farewell; she was scrambling for words that did not want to form.

Draco looked into her eyes and nodded. Sweeping his wand in a grand arch, he cast an untraceable summoning spell.

A small, dented cauldron rushed toward them, landing in front of Hermione’s feet with a muffled thump. She hesitated but then bent down to pick it up.

As soon as she touched the Portkey, a large leather pouch fell out of the air in front of Draco. He quickly picked it up.

“I have to go. It’s not safe here for me.”

She nodded.

“The others have already moved the camp; you won’t be able to lead them to us.”

She nodded again, unable to speak.

“Goodbye.”

The Portkey activated, and she could still feel Draco’s kiss as Ron seized her in a crushing embrace.

 

***

 

 _Theodore Nott, the Miller’s son_ , the verdict said. She had not even known that there were magical millers. Apparently, being entrusted with producing the base for every witch's and wizard’s bread was a highly regarded position of trust. Theo’s father had once been the main supplier for all magical bakeries in Britain. Now his son had been sentenced to a life in hiding, away from his family, because he had hunted a rabbit. The Wizengamot transcript stated that in his defence, he had stated that his children had been hungry. A tear fell onto the parchment and sent the footnotes scrambling. The law was clear. All Muggle creatures in the Forbidden Forest were property of the Ministry, there for the magical creatures to feed on and thus illegal to hunt.

Hermione rested her head in her hands. She remembered this law. It had been passed shortly after the war, as an acknowledgement of the role that the creatures of the forest had played in defeating the Dark. She herself had supported it, finding nothing wrong with giving protection to fellow magical beings and protecting other animals from additional hunting.

She had taken a father from his children.

No matter how many times she told herself that the Wizengamot had passed the law, it always came back to this.

She had rallied for it. Had pushed for it, like for so many other laws in the beginning of The Great Rebuild. 

Now she wondered how many lives she might have destroyed with her well-meaning efforts.

The Prewett Ring dug into her forehead. Ron had been overjoyed to have her back and had even wanted to move the wedding to an earlier date. 

After seeing the haunted eyes of Theo’s children and the witch desperately pleading for her help to release her husband from Azkaban, Hermione could not help but feel empty and pathetic listening to Molly and Fleur trying to talk to her about wedding colours –orange and black for a striking Chudley Cannons theme or burgundy and gold for all things Gryffindor? – and natural flower arrangements versus traditional ones made from owl feathers.

On her desk, a short twig of oak stood in a small vase; a light green, nearly white acorn nestled beneath the leaf. Absently, Hermione brushed a fingertip over the tiny forest fruit.

She had located the man guilty of preparation of and incitement to withholding of taxes. Officially, he was held on remand, but she could not find any evidence of a trial before the Wizengamot being prepared. In all likelihood, he would be forgotten.

Hermione was hesitant to so much as mention him to the case review wizards.

She had not understood what Theo had meant at the time, but her ever-inquisitive mind had stored the name of the curse and led her straight into one of the oldest sections of the Wizarding law library. Instead of potions tomes, she had buried herself in law texts.

Hermione caressed the outline of a lupine head in an illumination of one of the oldest versions of the law. The man with a wolf’s head startled and then turned greedily into the caress. 

Back then, in the times before Azkaban, _Caput gerat lupinum_ had been an effective way to mark and punish criminals, as it was cast in absence of the convicted. Cast out by wizards and Muggles alike and hunted and ridiculed by the werewolves, their lives were almost always short and their ends cruel.

Even though the wolf’s head was no longer a physical manifestation of the curse, _Caput_ still technically rendered them to be legally killed on sight.

With an apologetic look, she closed the heavy tome on the lonely wolf's head illumination.

She needed to start being honest with herself.

On her way out of the Ministry she passed the door to the Department for Rebuilding, Restructuring and Re-education. A witch was standing in front of it, wringing her hands, trying to summon the courage to enter. Her robes were made of deep green velvet, adorned with silver tassels. It looked suspiciously akin to Slytherin bed curtains.

Hermione slid her hand into her robe pocket and curled her fingers around a folded and sealed bit of parchment.

She moved through the crowds in the busy Ministry hallways with a new sense of purpose.

Stepping through the Ministry Floo and into the Leaky Cauldron, she didn’t stop when Tom called out to her. Turning on the spot, she materialised in front of a red door, slightly faded, with a bright spot where once an ornate door knocker had guarded the entrance.

She used her knuckles to knock and slid her foot between door and frame when the shocked woman inside the house wanted to immediately close the door again.

“Palilia! Please, I came alone. May I talk to you?”

Five minutes later found her at the scrubbed kitchen table, a cup of thin steaming tea in front of her.

“We should not have mentioned names, I take it.”

“No. There are only so many Palilias married to Picusses.” Hermione smiled into her cup.

Between the two witches lay a small, folded parchment, Hermione’s seal bright red atop the makeshift envelope.

“Will you give it to him the next time you see him?”

Palilia eyed the letter with trepidation.

“Will it hurt him?”

“I am willing to take a wizard’s oath that it won’t.”

“All right. I will give it to him. Will you stay for dinner?”

Hermione could hear breeding and politeness war with the fear that there might be another mouth to feed tonight.

“No, I thank you for the kind offer, but I must take my leave; there is still somebody I need to see tonight.”

Rising from her seat, she braced herself for the journey to Nottingham.

 

***

 

“Hermione, are you sure about this?”

She looked into his concerned, bright-green eyes, and her chest was tight and so full of love and sorrow that she wanted to break down and cry.

He had not understood when she confided in him; had raged and protested but he had also listened and helped her move her most important personal things out of the Burrow. Ron had been devastated when she had placed the Prewett Ring in his palm. He had closed his fist around it and turned away wordlessly. 

“It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to your enemies, but a great deal more to stand up to your friends,” she quoted. Harry smiled a sad smile at her. 

She desperately wanted to touch him one last time before she would cross over to the other side. She had never left him. Not when he had been trapped in the machinations of the Triwizard tournament, not when they were hungry and hopeless on the hunt for Horcruxes, and not when she felt him slipping away into Auror and Ministry politics. Now, for the first time, she would not be by his side. “You know how I can never just stand by and watch when I see injustice.” She smiled but could feel that it was a lopsided attempt. Harry laid his hand over her hand that rested on his cheek. 

“This is not taking S.P.E.W. to the next level, is it?”

“No. No, I promise, it is not.”

“Do you love him?”

“I do. Yes. Yes, I really do.” Apparently she could not stop repeating herself.

Harry squeezed her hand and let it go. He hugged her fiercely. “Just try not to make me arrest you.”

She laughed a little into his chest. “Will try.”

“Goodbye, Hermione.”

She walked backward for a few steps, smiling through her tears at her best friend in his official Auror robes, before she turned to the hooded figure at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

“Last chance, Granger; turn and run now.”

She extended her hand toward him. “I think not.”

He took it and kissed the palm.

“Enter your kingdom then, my lovely cutthroat.


End file.
